


Talk About Family

by fishfingersandjellybabies



Series: When I See You Again Trilogy [2]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-06 01:03:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4201989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishfingersandjellybabies/pseuds/fishfingersandjellybabies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say denial is the first stage of grieving. But he wasn’t grieving anything, so how could he be in denial?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talk About Family

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel/Part 2 of the _When I See You Again_ trilogy. This would be not long after Damian’s resurrection, so he still has his powers. Damian isn’t completely in denial. He is aware that it happened, and for the most part, is just choosing to ignore that fact. He mostly doesn’t want to talk about it because he thinks no one will believe his theory that Dick is still alive somewhere. Still inspired by the same song.

~~

_How could we not talk about family, when family’s all that we got?_

~~

**7:30am**

“Good morning.”

Damian glanced up as he walked into the kitchen, a yawn in his mouth and a hand scratching at his head. His father was already at the table, coffee half drank, eyes dark as he watched his son move.

Damian allowed it. It was still new after all. For his father and himself, alike.

Death does things. Resurrection does others.

“Good morning, Father.”

“Sleep well?”

_Dark skies, bloody tears. Screams. Swords. Pain._

“Of course.” He sat at the table, across from Bruce. “You?”

Bruce’s stoic face melted into a smile – a smile that no one else got to see, that was _Damian’s smile_. “Better than I have in a while.”

Damian matched the grin. “Good. I’m glad.”

Conversation was never either of their greatest traits, but mornings like this, it wasn’t needed. They were both there, they were both together, they were both _alive_.

And that was all that mattered.

But when Damian reached across the table for the newspaper, he noticed Bruce’s smile falter, noticed a sadness seep into his eyes. “Damian…”

“Are you going into the office today?” Damian cut off.

“Um, maybe this afternoon.” Bruce said slowly. “I thought maybe we could spend the morning together.”

“I would be content with that.” Damian nodded, opening to the business section. “What do you wish to do? We could go to the park. Todd mentioned they added an area purely for dogs. We could take Titus.”

“We could.” Bruce agreed slowly. “But I was thinking something more…” He grimaced then, and Damian didn’t need to see it to know that he did. “…close to home.”

Damian knew what it was. His father didn’t need to say anything more for his stomach to drop. For his mouth to go dry and his soul to crumble. “No.”

And Bruce was too used to the answer to be offended by his bluntness. Instead, he just sighed. “Damian-”

“ _No_ , Father.”

“You need to go.” A pause. “It’ll be good for you.” Another pause. “It’ll help with…with closure.”

The chair squealed as it was shoved back. The table jiggled as Damian’s hips smacked against it when he stood.

He glared at his father – and he didn’t want to. God, he had missed his father _so much_ , he didn’t want to be _angry_ with him – and huffed out a breath before turning and stomping out of the room.

“No.”

~~

**10:00am**

Colin didn’t say anything when he arrived at the park. Didn’t question when Damian texted him at seven forty-five in the morning to invite him either. Didn’t inquire about a lot of things he probably should have. If he really valued his life.

But he was voluntarily friends with a Wayne, so maybe he didn’t.

He plopped down next to Damian, bumped their shoulders together in greeting.

“The point of the dog park is for you to go _in there_ with your dog.” Colin hummed. “And I think Titus would enjoy it more if you would.”

The dog was at the fence, whining and shoving his claws against the fence.

“Too many people.” Damian returned, his voice muffled from his lips being pressed against knees. “I’m…what is it you say, Colin? I’m not _up to it_.”

“Okay, that’s fair.” Colin glanced up to the dog, making a quick hand motion. Titus let out a little woof, backed up a step and hopped the fence. The other dog owners all glanced at each other, muttering amongst themselves, deciding whether they should go after the sudden park escapee, before watching him push into the arms of a redheaded little boy. Colin smiled and waved around Titus’s flank, signaling it was okay, even as Titus leaned towards Damian, licking at his face. “How have you been feeling anyway?”

“Meaning?” Damian grumbled.

“How’s the whole ‘having powers’ thing going? Have you gotten a little more control over anything?”

“I suppose.” Damian shrugged. “Flying is fun.”

“I bet it is!” Colin snorted a chuckle. The chuckle dropped into a sigh, and Colin leaned back on his elbows, as Titus lay down in front of them. He glanced up at Damian’s tense form and clicked his tongue. “Another fight with your dad?”

“Not really.”

“Oh.” Colin nodded. He sometime wondered if Damian thought he was completely stupid. Or completely unobservant. Or just flat out didn’t _know_. “Did he bring up…well did he bring up the g-”

“Stop.” Damian asked, and it sounded like he was _pleading_. Like he was _begging_ as he pushed his mouth tighter against his knees.

“So he did.” Colin surmised. “Damian-”

“I didn’t come here to talk about problems with my father.” Damian snapped. “I came here to spend time with my friend. But if you don’t want to then I can easily go home and we can reschedule.”

“Damian, come on. Don’t be like that.” Colin droned, grabbing Damian’s sleeve before he got any funny ideas. “I’m just worried about you.” He paused, swallowing at the lump already building in his throat. “Because you’re my _friend_ and…and you were _dead_. And now you’re _not_ but…I don’t know, Damian, but something’s _wrong_ , and I just want to make sure you’re _okay_.”

“I’m fine.” Damian promised. “I’m _always_ fine.”

Colin exhaled, sitting up. “And that tells me that you’re not.”

Damian didn’t respond. Just reached out to pet at Titus’s ears.

“You’re gotta talk about it.” Colin whispered, throwing an arm across Damian’s shoulders. “If for no other reason, _he’d_ want you to.”

Damian leaned into Colin’s embrace, just slightly, but it was enough. Colin _thought_ it was enough, that he’d finally broken through his best friend’s walls, that Damian might open up to him a little bit.

But then Damian just sighed. Long, drawn out, and resigned.

“No.”

~~

**1:45pm**

The door slammed behind him with a clatter. He glanced back, making sure it actually closed, before continuing down the porch steps. Alfred meowed happily ahead of him, taking a clear joy in trotting through the grass towards their lunch destination.

Damian found himself enjoying the sharp brush of the grass against his bare feet too, now that it was an option to feel it, anyway. Flying was nice, but sometimes...

Sometimes being normal was nice, too.

Alfred’s purrs were loud as he wound between Damian’s legs. Damian smiled, trying to keep his balance, and not drop the tray of sandwiches and cat food he was carrying.

“If anything falls, you’ll have to back to the manor to retrieve a replacement.” Damian scolded fondly. The cat merely meowed, rubbed against his ankle. Damian just chuckled, rolled his eyes and continued forward.

It was probably strange. Probably on the wrong side of morbid. His father was probably worried.

But it was comforting. Sort of.

He watched as Alfred tiptoed around the open holes. The human Alfred lamented every day about that fact, that Bruce still wouldn’t let him fill them, even after Damian returned. Wouldn’t let him remove the ruins of Damian’s tombstone.

Damian had probably been a little less than helpful when his only reply was to shrug and say, “You’ll need it again one day, eventually.”

Damian grunted as he sat down between the two graves. Alfred hopped up on the jagged remains of his own, even as he leaned back against intact obelisk that memorialized his mother. He glanced up and around its corner, looking at his handiwork. Her name, chiseled into the stone. He’d done that, by hand. _Literally_. All with one finger.

A proof of strength, he could tell anyone. _Did_ , on multiple occasions. Todd, Cain, Kent – Drake’s Kent – and Colin. It was an easy lie. One they all bought quickly and without question. But it was far from the real reason. Because the real reason was harder to explain, and he didn’t want to deal with their sympathetic or confused stares. He’d already had more of those stares than he knew what to do with, all because of-

Well. All because of _that_.

No, the real reason was harder. Deeper. Because despite her flaws. Despite her misuse of power and science. Despite what she’d done to him.

She deserved her name on that piece of marble.

She deserved to be known. To be mourned. To be honored, if only slightly.

Alfred meowed in impatience, crouching slightly in anticipation of launching at Damian. Damian smiled and settled the tray in the grass. “Hold your horses, Alfred, jeez. I’m getting it.”

He hummed as he prepared their food, and Alfred purred a makeshift harmony, pawing every so often at Damian’s fingers until he was finished with Alfred’s dish. Damian placed on the grass next to him, nodded, and Alfred took the signal, jumping from the destroyed gravestone, and diving happily into his lunchtime meal.

Damian sat back against Talia’s memorial, taking a bite out of the sandwich the human Alfred had prepared for him. He watched as the clouds slowly moved around them. Thought about how he could fly through them now, how he was _invincible_.

How none of it _mattered_.

Because the only one he’d have to actively use those powers to protect was-

He took another bite of his sandwich. Focused on the mixture of peanut butter and jelly against his tongue. Focused on swallowing it and taking another bite. Focused on his cat, and making sure he finished his lunch before attempting to chase any birds.

It wasn’t long before Alfred was done, pawing poutily at his bowl, climbing into Damian’s lap to sniff at his sandwich.

“Oh no.” Damian shook his head with a grin, running a hand over Alfred’s ears. “You’re on a diet, remember. The vet said so.”

Alfred mewed lowly, but took the hint, crawling back the ground and slinking pathetically away. He didn’t get far before he perked back up, though, bounding a few steps towards the cemetery’s eastern corner and turning to Damian expectantly.

Damian frowned and looked away.

He heard Alfred huff before meowing louder. Damian glanced back. Alfred took a few more steps towards the east corner before spinning to Damian again, this time with an encouraging howl.

“There’s nothing over there,” Damian said quietly, staring pointedly downwards as he loaded the tray back up with Alfred’s empty bowl. “I don’t know why you’re so adamant.”

Alfred called again.

“No.” Damian said sternly, even as Alfred returned to his side, gazing up at him with too-wide, too- _understanding_ eyes. Damian bit his lip, hesitated just one moment. Then jerked the tray upwards and stood. “Come on.”

Alfred let out a victorious purr – but it was incredibly short-lived, as Damian turned back towards the manor, walking between the two open grave plots.

“Let’s head back inside before it rains.”

Alfred glanced behind him – towards both the gravestone in the east corner and the mostly clear skies above it – before following his master.

~~

**2:30pm**

He was already on the roof when Clark arrived.

“Ready to go?” The elder asked, floating jovially above the chimney. He looked almost comical, in his red plaid shirt and blue jeans, like it was some sort of mockery of his actual uniform. “I was thinking we work on trying the heat vision today. And if it still doesn’t work, we’ll just practice controlling the super-strength. Okay?”

“Sure.” Damian shrugged, standing and pushing his feet off the roof. There was always a secret joy in taking off. In jumping from the ground and not falling immediately back onto it.

“Good.” Clark smiled, and it wasn’t as annoying as Damian used to think it was. In fact, it almost reminded him of-

No.

Stop.

“Whoa.” He felt Clark’s hand on his bicep, another wrap protectively around his waist. “You okay, Damian? You fell a couple feet, there.”

“I’m fine.” Damian pushed out of Clark’s support, rising the few feet he’d dropped, and then some. “See? No problem.”

“Alright.” Clark said, a hint of disbelief in his voice. “Take a few laps for me, anyway? To the front gate and back, three times.”

Damian complied – it was what Superman was there for after all.

He could feel Clark’s eyes with every movement, just like Father’s, during his own tests of Damian’s newfound abilities. _Everything_ was a test, everything was some sort of _experiment_ , and Damian couldn’t tell if the trials were for his sake or humanity’s.

Sometimes he felt like no more than a _thing_.

(But only sometimes.)

At least Clark didn’t focus on the science. At least Clark was nice about it. Friendly, even. When Bruce ran his studies on Damian’s powers, he didn’t speak. Just gave orders and took down the results. If he had any worries, he never voiced them, then or to Damian otherwise.

When Clark ran the examination, he laughed and joked. He asked Damian about his well-being, and even put himself through the same trials. Afterwards, they even hung out. Raided Alfred’s fridge, went into Gotham for a treat or two. Did things normal, non-superpowered, non- _hero_ human beings did.

And Damian…actually kind of liked that.

“You seem to have it. Must have been just a bit of a surge. Happens to the best of us.” Clark nodded with a grin. “How’ve you been doing? Sorry I couldn’t make last week. Situation in Antarctica.”

“Fine.” Damian shrugged. It took a lot of effort not to scrunch his face at the sound of the word – it seems to be all he’s been saying lately. “When I grabbed a purse-snatcher last week, I didn’t fracture his arm this time.”

“Good!” And Clark sounded genuinely impressed. “What about punching people through walls?”

Damian pursed his lips, and he knew better than to even _try_ to hide his fluster from the Kryptonian. “A work in progress.”

“It always is.” Clark laughed – loud and warm. It burned at Damian’s soul, just a little bit. “How about mentally? How are you feeling there?”

It wasn’t his father, wasn’t even one of his _siblings_ , and Damian was finding himself increasingly unable to lie to the Justice League member. “Tired. _Smothered_.”

“Yeah.” Clark nodded knowingly. He sighed then, glanced up towards the sky. “God, Damian, if only I could even… _begin_ to explain how much your father missed you.”

“No need. I know.” Damian replied dryly. He floated gently across the yard, to the opposite corner than the family graveyard – a more open area to practice flying drills, with enough trees to use for target practice. Clark followed slowly after. “I feel smothered about…about _other_ things.”

He could practically hear Superman’s brain trying to read between the lines. He’d already lowered to the ground when he heard the realizing gasp. “ _Oh_. Oh, Damian…”

He didn’t want to voice it. Didn’t want to think anything about it, so he cut Clark off. Began rambling himself.

“They all just keep trying to get me to _talk_. About when I was _dead_ , about my memories, about my mother, about…” Superman knew. Damian knew he knew. He didn’t have to press the idea. “Why? Why do I have to remember all of this crap? Why do we have to _talk_ about it? Why can’t I just _be_?”

“Because dying is hard. Both here,” Clark reached out as he landed, touching Damian’s arm with two fingers, then moving the gesture up to Damian’s temple. “And here. And your family just wants to make sure you’re okay.”

“But I am!” Damian cried, stomping his foot into the grass. Superman took note of the slight rumble, the wave echoing through the grass. “I am _fine_ , and no one believes me!”

“Because you’re like your father.” Clark smiled sadly. “And your father is a terrible liar.”

Damian huffed. Crossed his arms and looked away.

“Do you…do you want to talk to me?” Clark tried. “I won’t…I won’t force you, or say anything. I won’t give any suggestions or orders. I’ll just listen.”

Damian pursed his lips, blinked away the suddenly mounting tears of frustration, and barked out a firm, “No.”

“…Okay.” Clark sighed, smile still sad – barely a smile at all anymore, really. “On with the lesson, then.”

~~

**5:15pm**

He didn’t have to see them, or be anywhere _near_ them to know. He didn’t even have to be _looking_ at them to have a clear picture of what they were doing.

Father. Drake. Pennyworth. Brown. Todd. Gordon. _Titus_.

They were watching.

They were _all_ watching him.

 _Always_.

And he knew why. Of course he did, did they think he was stupid?

But he could feel it. Those _stares_. And he _hated_ them. Hated them with every fiber of his being.

Because they were so _sad_.

He could feel their heartbreak through their eyes, couldn’t _not_ feel it, as those eyes followed him _constantly_. As he walked through the house, as he sat at the kitchen table, as he read a book, as he beat the tar out of bad guys.

And he _despised_ them. It made his skin crawl, his heart pound. He felt like he was under a microscope, and he was _so tired_ of feeling like someone’s medical experiment.

But he knew what that longing heartbreak was for. It wasn’t for the fact that he died – and for _that_ fact he was grateful – or that he’d bee put through that hell. It was a misery for the world he came back to. For the missing pieces that Damian might never get back.

He hated it.

He almost hated _them_ for it. For this behavior. For letting those missing pieces be taken from them – from _him_ – in the first place.

He paused in the hallway, turned his neck to glare daggers at Pennyworth. The elderly man jerked his gaze away, muttered something about dinner and hurried down the stairs.

This was all _their_ faults.

~~

**6:30pm**

The wind was loud in his ears, his cape whipped behind him as he flew through the city. It was one of the few moments he felt alive anymore, when he was flying. Felt _free_.

He weaved between the skyscrapers, finding a calm as he took wide, slow paths around them. He could see the appeal, could see why Superman and Wonder Woman enjoyed this method of transportation. Could see why his father often acted so jealous around them, as he followed behind in his jet.

The sun was setting quickly, leaving large orange splashes of light against the glass buildings. It was beautiful, if you liked that sort of scenery. Admittedly, Damian wasn’t paying much attention, his mind focused more on his destination than the journey.

As he flew, he drifted lower and lower, until his feet could practically skim the roofs of the structures. After a few moments, he stopped on one, landing gently on a concrete ledge. He stood there a moment, glancing down at the street, scanning it for any trouble – he was technically on patrol already, had told his father he was going on an early one – and quickly finding none. After he was sure all was quiet, he plopped down, let his feet hang over the edge, and peeked upwards at the building across the street.

It was a nice building, an apartment complex with a few spacious lofts on its top floor. He was focused on these, on the one on the far left. He couldn’t see into it, the reflection of the sunset blocking the inside from proper view. But that was okay. He knew what was inside anyway.

(Or rather, what was supposed to be inside.)

Could map it out right here, right now, if someone asked.

(So long as his family hadn’t looted the place yet, had removed the belongings that technically didn’t _belong_ to anyone anymore.)

He didn’t visit the place often, back before. In hindsight, he wondered why. Was he really so arrogant, that he looked down on the small loft?

Maybe he had just been annoyed. Maybe he was just still hurting. After all, the loft was acquired not long after the _transition_. The transition that Damian could admit now that he struggled with. That transition of getting a new _Batman_.

The loft had been the symbol of that transition’s finality – because there was no room for a ten-year-old in that home.

Damian pressed his lips together, ground his teeth to stop any sort of emotion from getting through.

How childish it seemed now, that he refused to go visit that place. That his bitterness held him away. Now, he didn’t have the chance. Couldn’t break into it if he tried. Couldn’t ask for a key – did they still own it? Did they sell it? Knowing his family’s habit of sentimentality probably not. Probably kept paying the rent to keep it as the shrine it was – out of fear of having to talk about…

His eyes stung and his lungs hurt.

He wished he could go back. Wished he could put his emotions aside. Wished he accepted a few of those invitations. Slept on that old couch, watched terrible movies, made a breakfast that was anything but _cereal_.

He wished his anger at the transition didn’t force him to stay away from the place he truly wanted to be – from the one person he truly wanted to be with.

His train of thought completely derailed then, as a tear dripped over the side of his mask. Then another, then another.

_No more. Please, no more._

He watched as the sun dipped below the horizon. As lights began to blink on in other apartments and the surrounding buildings. As people and families moved back and forth behind their windows, settled in for a quiet Gotham night.

The loft remained dark and empty.

~~

**9:00pm**

He saw her shadow jumping across the rooftops towards him at a frantic pace. Recognized her silhouette almost instantly. And he had to admit he was surprised – this sort of excited behavior was something he expected of Brown, not of her much more honorable friend. Not of his own _sister_.

“Black Bat, I see you.” Damian hummed into his communicator. “Is there an emergency?”

“Not exactly.” Cassandra admitted, and there was a happiness in her voice that Damian didn’t think he’d ever heard before. “But you.”

“Me?” He asked. “What _about_ me?”

“Stand still.” She ordered. “Or else.”

He hesitantly followed the command, dropping back out of the sky as he watched her dive across alleyways, flip over gaps. She had just landed on his own rooftop, was running towards him at top speed, when Red Robin’s last minute warning came through the network.

“Brace your feet, Robin.”

Damian didn’t get the chance to ask why, only had the chance to do what Tim had said, before Cassandra barreled into him. She latched her arms around his shoulders, lifted him off the ground and spun him.

“Wha…?!”

“You’re back. You’re home.” She whispered against his temple, and Damian was almost appalled by her behavior. He’d never seen her so…emotional. But then again, she hadn’t seen him since his resurrection. And even Drake had been elated to see him when he first returned. Her breath was heavy as she slowed her spins, as she still held him tight. “You’re _alive_.”

Damian couldn’t help but pause in surprise – because he and Cassandra had never been incredibly close. Not by choice, of course, but she had worked mostly international cases during his entire tenure in Gotham.

“I’m glad.” She whispered, and suddenly there was a kiss pressed to his forehead. “I am _so_ glad.”

She leaned back, then. Gently released his shoulders, took his face in her hands. Let Damian stare up at her, with wide childish eyes, barely hidden behind his mask.

And instantly, his soul was bared. She could see everything, in his eyes, whether he wanted her to or not. Every hidden emotion. Every hurt, every pain, every heartache. She saw his joys, she saw his love.

His lips began to quiver, and he tried to move back. Because with everything else, she saw _that_ too.

He gulped.

Hadn’t they warned her?

There were some things he just wouldn’t talk about. And he would do _anything_ to avoid them. Including use his newfound powers.

But she surprised him again, just nodded knowingly and ran one of her gloved hands across his hair.

“He would be so proud of you.”

She didn’t let him respond, instead pulled him back into her embrace, even as he protested. Even as he clung to her, shaking his head against her neck.

No. No, he wouldn’t be.

~~

**11:15pm**

He was in the middle of a fight with a small gang when he felt the bullets whiz by. The bullets hit the thugs, but they weren’t kill shots. Damian rolled his eyes as he tapped his mask, and made an emergency call for an ambulance.

With it all taken care of, he made his way to the roof, where he knew the Red Hood would be waiting for him.

Jason wasn’t wearing his mask – either the helmet or the domino, though the helmet sat next to him on the ledge – and was holding a cigarette with two fingers, resting the hand against his crossed knee. While he was _waiting_ for Damian, he wasn’t _watching_ for him. His gaze was behind him, over the ledge and sweeping across the city.

“Hey there, little bird.” He sighed, turning his head towards Damian. He lifted the cigarette, took a drag and lowered it. “You and I gotta talk.”

“Why?” It came out harsher than Damian intended. Because ever since learning how much Jason – and Tim and Barbara Gordon – helped in his return, he had vowed to better their relationship.

“Because you can’t live like this. You can’t keep it all… _bottled in_.” Jason waved the cigarette around in the air. “Trust me, okay? I know – I tried it, way back when.”

And what a shame that was. That the only thing Jason Todd and Damian Wayne truly had in common was the fact that they’d both been killed to get to the Batman. Had both been resurrected, and had a hard time coping with some of the things that entailed.

“And, look. I’m not here to talk to you, okay. I get what’s going on in that little brain of yours, and if you _want_ to talk, then sure, I’m here. But I’m not your dad, and I’m not here to force you into anything.” Jason explained, surprisingly gentle. “But, kid. You’ve got to let it out somewhere, to some _one_. Doesn’t matter who. Tell your dad. Tell that little ginger friend of yours. Hell, tell your freaking _cow_. Just tell _someone_.”

Damian glanced at his boots then. “And if there’s something I don’t want to talk about?”

“Then don’t start with that. Start somewhere else. Start small.” Jason shrugged. Another drag of smoke as he tilted his head. “Tell your dad about the nightmares first, you don’t have to talk to him about Dick right away.”

Damian’s gasp was involuntary. “Todd, how did you-”

“We all have a denial about something when we come back.” Jason smiled grimly, face lit only by the faint glow of his cigarette. He looked haunted, and Damian wondered if that look was always there, if they just couldn’t see it. “And _please_ , do you really think you’re doing a great job of hiding it? You’re not exactly subtle when trying to change the topic off of what happened to our _dear big brother_.”

Damian felt his stomach churning, thought he might puke if there was anything to puke up.

He wanted to lash out. Wanted to punch Jason in his stupid, scruffy face.

His plea was quiet, barely breathed. “Stop.”

Jason watched him for another moment before holding his hands up in surrender. “Like I said. I’m not here to actually talk to you. Just to give some suggestions.” Jason promised with a gentle smile. “Now, I’ve said my peace. Go run along, and save the day. Just like Robin always does.”

Damian sucked his lips into his mouth, gave a short nod and turned, lifting slowly off the rooftop and gliding up into the air. He was about really take off, about to pick up speed and zoom through the city to clear his head once more, when Jason spoke again.

“Why _won’t_ you talk about Dick, though?” He asked thoughtfully. “Can I ask you that much?”

Damian didn’t give Jason the satisfaction of looking back. Just kept his eyes forward as he floated away from the roof.

“No.”

~~

**1:30am**

The call was unexpected and desperate.

“Fear gas released city-wide. New strain. Unknown properties. Take cover until further notice.”

Damian turned on his perch, could see random plumes billowing up through the skyscrapers, was already hearing the screams of confusion and terror. He jumped off the ledge, angling himself in that direction.

“I can-”

“Take cover until further notice.” Batman repeated, and from the sounds of his harsh breaths, he’d already been exposed.

“But Father, I can-”

“Robin, _please_.” And Damian couldn’t help but flinch. He hated when his father sounded so…vulnerable. “Just until I synthesize an antidote. A few hours, max.”

Damian sighed as the gas continued to spread, some of the clouds meshing together. It was their _job_ , they needed to be there. Save those few who were outside. But he couldn’t stand the sadness in his father’s voice. Couldn’t stand being the _cause_ of that sadness, not again. “…Alright, Batman.”

Damian turned away, zoomed down the street, looking for a building he recognized. They had at least two safe houses per city quarter, surely there was one around-

Wait.

He flew around the corner and froze.

Well, wasn’t that just his luck.

He glanced around, seeing if he had time to fly anywhere else, but could already see the gas seeping through the alleyways. He scoffed and headed towards the apartment building. As he neared it, he was surprised, and a little suspicious, to see that the windows on the far left of the top floor were already lit.

Looks like the loft wasn’t going to be dark and empty tonight after all.

He dropped down to the fire escape and cautiously tested the window. It slid open easily, and he jumped across the threshold, throwing the window closed again and hitting the lock for good measure. After that, though, he didn’t move, just kept his hand against the glass, stood there taking slow, even breaths.

He could stay right here. Until his father called, until the all clear was given. He didn’t have to actually-

“Damian?”

_Crap._

He didn’t turn at the approaching footsteps. The distinct swishing of the cape gave away the other’s identity.

“Drake.”

The movement stopped a few feet behind him, in the doorway of the bedroom. There was a shadow across the floor, and Damian could see the other’s profile in the reflection of the window. His shoulders were slumped and his head was tilted. Even without see his face directly, he could tell Tim was nervous, trying to figure out to proceed.

Damian’s death had changed their relationship, too. And they were both still adapting to that.

“You okay?” Tim asked, finally. “You didn’t get hit with the toxin, did you?”

“No. I’m fine. You?”

“No. No, I got in here before it really began to spread.” Tim explained. “Do you…are you thirsty? I don’t think there’s any food here, but…I think there’s still running water, at least.”

 _Of course there’s no food, no one lives here,_ is what Damian wanted to snap, but he didn’t. Drake didn’t deserve his scorn, not anymore. Not when he was trying so hard to make amends.

“Come on.” Tim urged, turning halfway and waving his hand. “Come take a load off.”

Damian’s soul clenched. No, no, he couldn’t. He could stand here all night if he had to, he didn’t need to go in there. It was-

“…Damian?” A hesitation. “You sure you’re okay?”

He had to prove that he _was_.

“Yes.” Slowly, he turned, held his breath the whole time as he looked up at Tim. Tim stared for a moment before giving one quick nod, turning back towards the kitchen. Damian silently followed.

When they reached the kitchen, Damian steered away, heading towards the living room. He didn’t sit, though. Didn’t flop against the cushions and close his eyes. Instead he went to the large wall of windows, and stared down into the streets. The ominous green gas was rolling down the road like waves. The only plus side was the late hour, and in a residential area like this, most, if not all, citizens were already safely inside.

“So how have you been?” Tim called over the sound of water. “Sorry, I keep meaning to drop by the manor. Heh, I’ve heard Clark has been by more than I have. I’m sorry about that, I promise I’ll do-”

“I’m fine.” Damian cut off. He glanced up at himself in the reflection, could see the same haunted look Todd had, etched into his young features. He gulped at the lump in his throat.

“You…” And he could hear Tim’s trepidation. “You sure?”

“Yes.” Damian barked. In the reflection, he could see Tim was slowly moving towards him with two cups in his hand. “Yes, I am _sure_ I am fine. Why wouldn’t I be? Do you all think I don’t know myself? Why do you all keep _asking_ me that? Do you all think I’m _lying_?”

“Well, no, but…” Tim sighed, placing the glasses on the dusty coffee table. “You’re boxing us out, Damian. You’re avoiding questions and topics like the plague. Like…like they’re not real.”

“What the hell are you _on_ about, Drake? Do you all think I’m really _denying_ some sort of reality?” Damian drawled. “Get your heads out of your asses. As if I’m so delusional as to not accept a…a _fact_.”

He could see Tim nodding slowly once more, tongue pushed into his cheek. Calculating, just as he always was. “…Then why won’t you talk about Dick?”

It was an involuntary gesture, but Damian knew Tim saw his gaze drop to the floor.

“Don’t.”

“Why won’t you even say his name?” Tim pushed, and he knew it was dangerous ground. But he was sick of it. Sick of the silence, sick of the emotional walls, sick of the distance in their family. They’d gotten Damian back, but if felt like the journey was only half done, because there was something in that boy’s mind, and he wasn’t _okay_.

Tim _needed_ him to be okay.

If only because nothing else in their lives had the capacity to be.

“Drake.” Damian’s voice was low in warning, his shoulders hunched in anxiety. “Stop.”

Stop wasn’t a word in Timothy Drake’s vocabulary. Not when it comes to those he cared about.

“Damian.” He stepped forward. “Why won’t you acknowledge _what happened_ to him?”

And Jason had been right – letting it build up was a dangerous idea. But something inside Damian snapped. And he was fed up with the questions. Fed up with the tears, fed up with the denial. But most of all he was fed up with biting his tongue.

“Because it’s a _lie_!” He screamed as he whirled around, hands balled into fists. “Because Grayson is _not dead!”_

Tim took a step back, and Damian wondered if it was in surprise or in fear of his abilities.

“Grayson’s _not_ dead, he _can’t_ be dead!” He continued, and could Tim be damned if he was going to try and cut him off now. “It’s _impossible_!”

“Damian…”

“I won’t believe it!” He shrieked, and he could hear the cracks in his own voice, could feel the tears building in his eyes. He looked away from Tim, focused on the table next to them and immediately threw his fist into the wood. “I refuse!”

Tim just watched the wood splinter, consciously stayed put, where he knew he would be between Damian and the door, would be close enough to grab him should he try to burst through the window.

“It’s a _trick_ ,” Damian huffed, turning his attention now to the sofa, clawing at one of the cushions before punching at it rapidly. Feathers filled the air around them like snow. “It’s just a stupid _trick_. An _act_ , like from when he was in that _stupid circus_.”

Tim sighed, took a brave step forward.

“That moron _loves_ to play tricks. Loves to _tease_ us.” Damian continued, and his voice was still so tight, the tears splashed from his face as he took his frustrations out on the couch. “Why would _this_ be any different.”

And it broke Tim’s heart, because he could see it. Damian wasn’t grieving, not really. He _honestly_ and _truly_ believed that Dick wasn’t dead. His denial was so heavy, it was actually _warping_ his reality. And the more Damian didn’t talk about it, the easier he could convince himself.

This kid needed so much more help than any of them realized.

“I’ll find him.” Damian mumbled, and Tim couldn’t help it. He reached out, grabbed Damian by his hood and dragged him against his chest. For his part, Damian didn’t fight it, just slumped into Tim’s hold. “I’m going find that idiot, and bring him home.”

“Okay.” Tim absently agreed, running a hand over Damian’s sweaty hair. “Okay, Damian.”

“I’m going to bring him home.” Damian promised weakly, dreamily watching the feathers continue to fall around them. “And then I’m going to kick his ass all the way to Metropolis.”

~~

**6:15am**

He flew slowly back to the manor, relishing the feel of cool air against his face. He was exhausted, and just wanted to curl up with Titus and sleep the day away.

They had ended up staying in the apartment – in _Dick Grayson’s_ old apartment – for about four hours. They didn’t sleep, just spent the time talking. About their friends, about Damian’s pets, about their father and wayward brother – because Damian refused to refer to Jason as their _only_ brother. Damian opened up a little bit about what it was like to die, and Tim tried to fill him in on what happened in the months he was dead.

He knew Tim was just about to try again, just about to bring up the subject of Grayson again when they got the all clear.

“Fear toxin handled. Lockdown lifted. Head home, everyone. There’s nothing left for us to do.”

Damian had stood then, gave a quiet goodbye and promise of a later meet-up to Tim and quickly trotted back to the window he’d dropped in from. As soon as he was in the air, he glanced back, saw the lights of the loft already switched off, and immediately tapped a finger against his mask, turning off the communicator.

Drake was most likely going to report back to his father. Not that he blamed him, of course. They were all worried, and Damian’s emotional rant at the turning of a new day was the first break any of them had gotten. And he just didn’t want to hear about it. Just wanted a few hours of peace before his father inevitably cornered him.

They thought he was crazy. He knew they did.

But that was fine. Because they didn’t _know_. They couldn’t _see_ the facts that Damian did. Though…Damian had to admit, if they’d asked for that evidence, Damian wouldn’t be able to produce it.

So…maybe they were right. Maybe he _was_ crazy.

He shook his head, swooped over the manor gates, sailing over the trees as he headed towards the backyard. He slowed as he reached the trees’ edge, pausing in the air as he glanced across the grass. Even with the rising run, the Wayne family cemetery was quite a sight, silhouetted against the horizon.

He shouldn’t go there. He should go the other way, towards the house. Head to his room, flop onto his bed, sleep through the day.

There was nothing there. Just gravestones that didn’t matter. There was _nothing_ …

He turned towards it, flying quickly towards the cemetery entrance.

He dropped to the ground right below the signage. He didn’t look up at it, instead stomped swiftly through the graves.

“They’re fake.” He hissed, dodging some memorials and jumping over others. He wondered why the path to the eastern corner was so difficult to maneuver. “They’re all _relics_.”

He didn’t know who he was talking to. Himself? The birds? The clouds? The gods?

But maybe this was it. This was his proof.

“Todd’s grave is empty. Father’s grave is empty. So is mine, and even mother’s – though her whereabouts are still unknown.” Damian explained, as he slowed, as he finally reached his destination. He looked down at the tombstone – simple and small. Very undeserving of the man it was supposed to immortalize – and frowned. “So why can’t yours be too?”

A bird chirped loudly as it flew overhead, as the sun began to peek over the hills.

“It is.” Damian said definitively. “I know it is.”

No one answered his claim, and the scene around him stayed serene. After a moment, he took a deep breath and crouched, digging his gloved fingers into the marble of the grave. The stone crumbled immediately under his strength and he wrenched chunks from it, throwing them absently over his shoulder.

“This monument is worthless. I’ll prove it.” Damian kept ripping, kept pulling the gravestone apart until there was no gravestone left, until he felt the softness of grass underneath his gloves. “I’ll find you, and I’ll bring you home.” He paused, resting his wrists against his knees, staring down at the destruction he’d just wreaked. “And then everyone will stop asking me those _stupid questions_. Everyone will stop looking at me so damn _sadly_.”

Faintly, he heard the sound of the Batmobile coming over the ridge. His father would be home in less than five minutes, and he still had no desire to speak to him. He stood, cracked his neck and lifted into the air.

“So get ready, Grayson.” He said as he turned, pushed his momentum and headed towards his bedroom window. “I’m on my way.”


End file.
